


the undoing

by tgrsndshrks



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Boot Worship, Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, Humiliation, M/M, Smoking, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7598266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“C'mere,” Tim says. John stays still for a moment but doesn't make Tim ask twice. He walks over, and Tim sits up, fisting his hand in the collar of John's shirt and yanking him down. John's breath hitches, folding himself down to Tim's level. “I'm gonna ask you again,” Tim says. “I want you to be really honest with me, okay?” John nods quickly. “Do you like my boots?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>or, john really, really, really likes tim's boots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the undoing

**Author's Note:**

> ALL I DO IS SIN SIN SIN SIN SIN
> 
> the usual shout outs to zahra and julia on this one.
> 
> i don't know if i like this tim-centric. i kinda wish i'd written it john-centric but like three of my last four fics have been john-centric and i wanted to change it up. I JUST DON'T KNOW.
> 
> title from the skold album. which you should own. buy it on itunes.
> 
> BY THE WAY!! THIS IS MY 50TH WORK ON AO3!! holy shit y'all. i'm glad i could provide so much filth for y'all to read.

It's funny, Tim thinks to himself, how obvious it is. How obvious it's always been. Maybe Tim just played it out like this because he wanted to see how long it'd take for John to break. Turns out, the answer is about a week of touring. It's their fifth show, and they're in London. It's June and the dressing room window is open.

John comes into Tim's dressing room, hands hurriedly buttoning his coat. He doesn't look up right away, focused on his top button.

“Nearly ready?” John asks, and when he looks up the button slips out from his grip as he fumbles visibly. Tim's tying his second boot, pulling the laces tight.

“Yeah,” Tim says. It's only his fifth show ever with the band, but he isn't particularly nervous. John looks shaken up, his eyes darting from Tim's boots to his face. “You alright?” Tim asks.

“Fine,” John says quickly, eyes back down at Tim's laces again. Tim swears John talks to his boots more than he talks to his face. John's easy to read, even as he stands in the doorway, across the room.

“You sure?” Tim asks. He finishes tying the laces and leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out, John's eyes following their line up over the sliver of white skin between the boots and his sock garters, startling visibly when Tim clears his throat.

“Sorry,” John says. Tim grins.

“Close the door,” he says. John doesn't seem to question it, just steps in and shuts the door behind him. “If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?”

“Yeah, of course,” John says, finally fixing his top button.

“Do you like my boots?” Tim asks.

John shifts his weight, hand going up to scratch awkwardly at his neck. “Yeah,” he says, noncommittally. “They're nice.” Tim narrows his eyes a bit, looks at him. John stiffens under Tim's gaze, and Tim just bites his thumb, then jerks his head a bit, gestures for John to come over.

“C'mere,” Tim says. John stays still for a moment but doesn't make Tim ask twice. He walks over, and Tim sits up, fisting his hand in the collar of John's shirt and yanking him down. John's breath hitches, folding himself down to Tim's level. “I'm gonna ask you again,” Tim says. “I want you to be really honest with me, okay?” John nods quickly. “Do you like my boots?”

“Yes,” John says, shifting in Tim's grip, his body bent awkwardly to accommodate it. “I really, really do.” Tim pulls down on John's collar again and John goes down more, grabs the arm of Tim's chair to steady himself as he goes down to his knees in front of him.

“I noticed,” Tim says, letting go of John's shirt. John sits back on his legs, eyes following Tim's legs down to the boots. And are they even more impressive this close. Two dozen eyelets painstakingly laced, and worn leather impeccably shined. The grime of wear and venue dirt is visible, but it doesn't take away from them in the slightest. Tim laughs once, more of a scoff than an honest laugh, and John lifts his head again. Tim holds John's jaw in his hand, a red painted thumb smearing lipstick across his mouth. “I could tell,” he says. “It's obvious. You talk to my boots more than you talk to my face.” John's face flushes.

“I'm sorry,” he says, as Tim idly toys with his bottom lip. “I can't help it.”

“It's okay,” Tim says. He pushes his thumb into John's mouth and he takes it in eagerly, lips closing around his knuckle. Tim thumbs over John's tongue. “If you didn't have all this pretty lipstick on, maybe I'd let you kiss them. But I can't have you ruining them before the show.” John whimpers loudly, eyes turned up at Tim. He slips his thumb out and lifts John's chin.

“Please,” John says, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, right where Tim's thumb had been.

“What do you need?” Tim asks, voice softening. John tenses visibly, looks away, like he doesn't want to answer, and Tim realizes. “Lean back.” John hesitates, but Tim nudges his shoulder. “Let me see.” John finally does, sitting upright, and then leaning back enough to have to brace himself on the floor. As Tim had suspected, the hard line of John's cock is visibly through his pants, curving to one side. “What's this?” Tim asks, reaching over with his leg to press the toe of his boot into John's erection.

“Ah,” John gasps, hips jerking up at the boot rather embarrassingly. Tim can see John blushing under his makeup.

“You're already a mess,” Tim says, pushing against John's cock again, and John nods, pushing back too, wanting more solid contact than the treads of Tim's boot. Tim clumsily runs the length of the sole along John's cock and John moans loudly, looking up at Tim with wide doe eyes.

“Tim,” John says, voice cracking, and even Tim's surprised at how broken it sounds already. John goes to reach for his cock, to touch himself through his pants, but Tim kicks the hand away. “Please,” John says.

“No hands allowed,” Tim says. “Sluts who can't control themselves don't get to use their hands.” John's face reddens again, whimpers at the denial.

“Need to get off,” he begs, hands fisting in his own jacket, needing something to brace himself against even as Tim pulls his foot away. 

“I'm not touching you either,” Tim says. John winces. “If you want to get off I'd suggest you work for it.” Tim stretches his leg out, reaches to the table behind him to grab his pack. John's just looking at him, watching dumbly as Tim lights a cigarette and drags, sucking in smoke. Tim seems to notice John hasn't taken the hint, so he looks pointedly at his boot, then at John. “Go ahead. Get yourself off, then.”

John figures it out, then, his mouth falling open, red with smeared lipstick. He inches forward, moving to straddle Tim's leg, pressing into it, and Tim can feel the heat of his cock even through the leather. John grinds into him, hands gripping at Tim's thigh desperately, wanting more but only being given the bit of friction he can get against the laces. John rolls his hips in earnest, enough to get Tim to push his boot back into it, flicking his ashes. 

“Fuck's sake,” Tim says, “you're so _needy_. Look at me.”

John obeys, lifting his head to meet Tim's eyes, even as he ruts into his leg.

“Are you embarrassed?” Tim asks, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth.

“A little,” John admits, laughing despite himself. Tim smiles, laughs softly too, smoke curling from his nose. 

“Don't hold back,” Tim says. “Let me hear how desperate you are. So desperate that you'd just fuck yourself against my _boots_ to get off.” John does as he's told, gasps audibly as he dicks against Tim's leg. He moans, fingers gripping at Tim's exposed skin, visibly moving harder and rougher. He's clearly enjoying the friction, but wants more, wants the firm grip of Tim's hand. “To think, so many of those people in that crowd out there are waiting to see you,” Tim remarks, flicking ashes at John. “And here you are. On the ground, at my boots, grinding into me like a _puppy_ that needs to be fixed. Like a whore.” John whimpers but doesn't stop, just looks up at Tim again, teeth digging into his lip. “This is where you belong, isn't it? Not onstage. Right here.”

“Yes, _please_ ,” John moans, grabbing at the leather of Tim's boot. “Need to cum, Tim, please.”

“Are you going to be good for me?” Tim asks. “No more talking to my boots and staring at them when you haven't been given permission. Understand?”

“I'll be good, Tim. Anything you want. Please. I'll be so good,” John begs, bracing his forehead against Tim's leg. “I'm all yours, just – _please_.” Tim can't keep the smirk off his face. He exhales smoke, seeming to consider it.

“Alright,” Tim says. “Then cum for me, slut.”

John tenses, mouth falling open as he cums in his pants, crying out weakly against Tim's leg. He hugs it close to him as his orgasm takes him over, hips grinding into him as if he's riding Tim's cock. John shakes, breathes heavily, lifting his head to look through half lidded eyes at Tim, who's finishing his cigarette. John shifts back, looking down, having soaked through his pants, the wetness barely visible but still smeared on Tim's boot.

“I'm sorry,” John says quickly. “I can clean it up.”

“No matter,” Tim says, standing up and offering John a hand to help him onto shaky legs. “There's no time for me to punish you for that. Maybe after.” Tim wraps his hand around John's neck and John allows him to pull him close. “Don't think that just because no one else can see those cum stains it doesn't mean I'm not going to be thinking about how you came in your fucking pants during the whole show. You dirty, _dirty_ whore.”


End file.
